


To Feel Again

by Supersteffy



Series: Thiefshipping in Two Parts [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7406794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supersteffy/pseuds/Supersteffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long after the Ceremonial Duel, Marik finds himself visited by the Spirit of the Ring. The two catch up, and soon old feelings resurface, sparking an intense reunion. I'm writing it as a sort-of companion piece to "Remember Me", but it's got a slightly different feel to it. Rated for lemon in chapter two! Thiefshipping lemon. Tender and fluffy emotional stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sitabethel for beta'ing and kicking me in the butt to finish it!

As a knock sounded at the front door, Marik glanced at the clock. Who would be paying him a visit at this late hour? Heaving a sigh, he set down his book and made his way over to the door. A glance in the peephole showed Ryou’s white hair, his face turned toward the apartment across the way as he waited for Marik.

            It was unlike Ryou to show up unannounced, especially so late at night. Confused and concerned, Marik unbolted the door and stepped out into the hallway.

            “Ryou, is something wrong? It’s really late for—” Marik gaped as the man before him turned, a perfect smirk in place that Ryou could never achieve. “B- _Bakura_?”

            A pure white eyebrow shot up to hide amongst snowy hair that was as untamable as ever. “Not who you were expecting? Well, I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

            Marik shook his head, words failing him as the impossible stood and mocked him in his own hallway. “You...but the Pharaoh—you were _dead_!”

            A small chuckle made Marik’s stomach tweak in a funny way. “ _Were_ is the key word, Ishtar. Now, I assure you, I’m very much alive.”

            “But... _how_?”

            The smirk vanished. “It’s a bit involved,” he hedged.

            “I’ll bet.”

            There was a laden pause in which neither spoke, broken when Bakura teased, “Well, your manners certainly haven’t improved, Marik. Are you going to ask me in, or have I traveled all this way for nothing?”

            “Uh, right. Sorry.” Marik moved out of the way as Bakura sauntered past, glancing over the apartment with the same mocking measure he’d granted Marik.

            “Interesting choice of lodgings. I would have expected you to go back to Egypt with your siblings—you know, after you pledged your undying loyalty to the _Pharaoh_.”

            Marik bristled. “There is nothing for me in Egypt. I burned that bridge the moment I turned my back on my legacy as a tomb keeper. Here I at least had a chance at a fresh start.”

            Bakura halted to gaze at a picture of Ryou and Marik at the beach, the former’s red and white complexion a stark contrast to Marik’s flawless bronze. He set the picture down and moved on.

            “Not an entirely fresh start. I see you’ve become quite chummy with my ex-host.”

            Marik was about to remind Bakura that Ryou had a name, but he stopped when he realized what Bakura had just said. “ _Ex_ -host? You mean that’s...?”

            Bakura turned after finishing his tour of the living room and smiled at Marik. “Not Ryou’s body? No.”

            “But how?”

            Bakura shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not really sure how. I woke up outside the ruins of the pyramid where the Pharaoh and the Runt had their Ceremonial Duel. After a short adjustment period, I tracked down Ryou at his place, and he happened to mention you were in town.”

            “So, wait. You JUST showed up? Why the long pause? The Ceremonial Duel happened, like, three years ago!”

            “Your guess is as good as mine.” The grin returned with a vengeance. “Perhaps even the gods didn’t know what to do with me.”

            “Only you would be proud of that.”

            Bakura chuckled again. He looked his old partner over, appreciating the way his body had filled out in the few years since Bakura had last seen it. It had been impressive before, to be sure, but where Marik’s face before had still hinted at the child he’d briefly been, the features had since matured. It was a man’s face that he saw, and a man’s emotions that lurked in the violet depths of his eyes.

            “Are you, uh, hungry? Thirsty?”

            Bakura’s white mane swayed as he shook his head. “I ate at Ryou’s. _He_ at least knows how to treat guests.”

            Marik sniffed haughtily at the jibe. “You’re not a guest; you’re a pest.” Marik scrutinized the ex-spirit. “You look good for someone fresh out of the tombs.”

            “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

            “Would you rather I picked a fight with you?”

            “Maybe. It’s familiar territory, after all.”

            Marik shrugged. “Not really. We didn’t argue _that_ much.”

            Bakura rolled his eyes. “Have the years addled your memory? We argued constantly.”

            “No, we didn’t.”

            Bakura crossed his arms and looked pointedly at Marik. “You mean like we’re not arguing now?”

            Marik opened his mouth to retort, but it twisted into a smile as the irony sank in. “Precisely. This isn’t an argument, we’re just...talking in contradictions.” Bakura shook his head.

            Marik strode casually over to the couch and sank into its leather cushions. Leaning an elbow on the armrest, he surveyed Bakura with a measure of the cockiness Bakura remembered from Battle City. “So,” he began, “you came back looking like Ryou—interesting choice.”

            Bakura grimaced. “I came back. There was no choice given or made concerning the matter. This was the body the gods stuck me with—probably as a final ‘fuck you’ for all the shit I put them through.”

            “I don’t see why you’re complaining.” Marik’s eyes glittered. “I mean, I’ve always liked you in that body.”

            “You’ve never seen me in my original body.”

            “True,” he conceded, “but at least Ryou’s body is pretty; the gods could just as easily have put you in a diseased and disgusting body—or worse, brought you back looking like the Pharaoh.” Marik mock-shuddered and a small, almost-smile found itself forming on Bakura’s lips.

            “A truly cruel and unusual punishment,” he agreed. Sweeping his gaze around the room once more, he asked, “So, what has the leader of the Ghouls been up to these days?”

            “Not much, really. Things have been pretty lame since the Ceremonial Duel. The Ghouls have disbanded, and I’ve mostly been making my living bartending.”

            Bakura’s eyes widened at that strange development. “Bartending?”

            Marik nodded, a smirk stretching and sharpening. “It’s pretty fun, actually. Seems I have a natural talent for it—drunk girls tip well when you’re willing to flirt back.”

            Bakura matched Marik’s expression, mocha eyes syncing with violet. “You always were a tease.”

            “Never seemed to bother you before.”

            “I never said it bothered me now,” Bakura pointed out.

            “What about you? What do you plan to do with this second chance you’ve been gifted?”

            Bakura lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Haven’t really considered it.”

            “Well, if you need a place to stay, I’m sure we could work something out.”

            Lips pulling into a skewed grin, Bakura replied, “Ryou offered the same, albeit without the manipulative undertone that suggested he expected anything in return.”

            “You should know by now I never do anything that doesn’t benefit me somehow—I wouldn’t have gotten this far otherwise.”

            “You’re lucky I’m a far more charitable soul, otherwise I’d have never taken on your dark half for you.”

            “As I remember it, you lost that duel— _and_ I had promised you the Rod and the secret on my back in exchange for your assistance.”

            “Half of which you already owed me from a previous bargain,” Bakura pointed out. “And as to the other, if I had been of the mind to, I could have simply asked your other half for the secret on your back. I had no obligation to help you destroy your demented counterpart.”

            Marik thought about that for a second before shaking it off. “Whatever. It’s not like it makes a difference either way. Yugi and the Pharaoh were the ones to defeat my dark side in the end.”

            “Yes. From what I hear you forfeited to them in order to banish your dark half. Seems very uncharacteristic of you. The Marik I knew didn’t give up on anything.”

            Marik rolled his shoulders and stretched where he sat. “There was no point in drawing it out; I had to lose in order to seal my dark half in the Shadows.”

            “Just would have thought you would try to figure out a way to at least tie them. I know you were duelist enough to do it, even with only one life point left.”

            “There was no guarantee that a tie would have banished him the way a defeat would, and my family means more to me than some senseless duel.” Marik pulled a dry smile. “You could say having their lives threatened by a fragment of my own subconscious granted me a measure of perspective.”

            Once again it struck Bakura how much Marik had matured since he’d last seen him, and not merely physically. Games were for children; putting family first was something a man did, and Bakura could respect that. He himself had lived and fought for his family his entire existence.

            “So what happened to you after Battle City, anyway? I know you had some sort of Shadow Game with the Pharaoh that you lost, but I’m a little sparse on details. I got a few highlights from Yugi and company before the Pharaoh’s big sendoff, but they weren’t very keen on talking about it.”

            Bakura shuffled in place. “We had a showdown in his memories of Ancient Egypt. It was meant to be just me and Zorc—the Lord of the Shadows—against the Pharaoh.” His scowl curdled into a bare-teethed grimace. “But those goddamned cheerleaders of his managed to worm their way in! They found the Pharaoh’s name—the key to the Pharaoh’s true strength—and he used it to turn my own game against me.”

            “Not surprising. That’s what he did best, after all.”

            Bakura’s eyes narrowed at Marik’s nonchalant remark. “He never would have had the chance if they hadn’t interfered!”

            “But from what I’d gathered, wouldn’t the world have been destroyed had you succeeded?”

            “No. I had it under control.”

            Marik rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sure you did.”

            “I _did_!”

            Marik hiked up a condescending eyebrow. “You had a way of locking the Lord of Shadows back into the Shadow Realm without the Pharaoh’s help— _after_ Zorc had fully resurrected?”

            “I thought you didn’t know specifics?”

            “I said I knew the highlights.” Marik gestured with his hand for Bakura to answer the question.

            “No,” Bakura admitted grudgingly, “but I would have figured something out.”

            “Mm.” Marik studied Bakura for a moment, gauging his mood. “Well, seeing as how the world isn’t destroyed, you’re alive, and the Pharaoh isn’t, I’d say you still came out on top in the end.”

            Calming marginally, Bakura considered Marik’s words. “Perhaps you have a point.”

            “I only wish you would have revived sooner—things have been dull since all of the world-breaking drama faded away with the Pharaoh.”

“My apologies. Had I known I was leaving you to stew in your boredom, I would have returned sooner.”

“Fuck you.”

Bakura chuckled, his arms crossing and his hip jutting slightly. “Regardless, you seem to have done well for yourself in my absence.”

            “Yeah.” Marik’s blithe smile melded into a melancholy pout. “Dealing with the fallout wasn’t easy, you know—for any of us.”

            Bakura’s forehead wrinkled. “How do you mean?”

            “I mean, my siblings, Yugi and his gang…they all mourned the Pharaoh’s death after the Ceremonial Duel, while Ryou and I…” Marik looked poignantly at Bakura, unable to express the thought with words.

            “Oh…” Bakura wasn’t sure what to say. How do you console someone concerning your own death?

Marik stared down at his hands resting in his lap. “You made me feel again, and then you just...left.”

            Bakura shifted his weight, unable to meet Marik’s eyes any more than the boy—man—could meet his.

            “You know I...I wasn’t with anyone else,” Marik confessed softly, his cheeks staining a cabernet hue.

            “Really?” Bakura questioned. He found it hard to believe. Marik was attractive enough to have his pick of lovers, and he knew from experience that the Egyptian had no qualms about going after the things he wanted. “Not even once? In three years?” Marik shook his head. “Hm.”

            Marik’s head shot up and he stared at Bakura. “What?”

            “Nothing, it’s just...I thought perhaps you and Ryou...”

            “ _Ryou_? He’s not even gay—or bi, or whatever.” Marik thought for a second. “Is he?”

            Bakura shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest. Contrary to what you or anyone else may believe, I never snooped in his private thoughts.”

            “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have felt right with Ryou. He’s not you,” he added softly.

            Bakura caught Marik’s gaze and held it. “Most people would consider that a positive thing.”

            “Most people don’t know you as well as I do.”

            “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Bakura challenged.

            “I know you better than most.”

            Bakura merely grunted in reply, glancing around the room again.

            “You can come sit on the couch, you know.”

            “I’m fine.”

            “Bakura.” Bakura flicked a look at Marik. “Come here.”

            Bakura hesitated before releasing a haughty snort and slinking over to join Marik on the couch. The moment he sat, Marik grabbed him by the shoulders and turned Bakura to face him.

            “What are you doing?” Bakura demanded, trying to shake off Marik’s grip.

            “I just want a look at you.”

            Bakura’s body locked up in apprehension as Marik’s eyes looked him all over, perhaps trying to discern the differences between Ryou’s body and Bakura’s new one. Marik’s hands smoothed down Bakura’s arms and squeezed at the muscles through his thick, black coat. The hands worked their way to his chest, pausing over his heart where the ring used to hang, before coming to rest on either side of his face.

            A small sound of wonder escaped Bakura’s lips the moment Marik’s skin came into contact with his own. His reaction was automatic and instantaneous, his own hands coming up to cover Marik’s and hold them in place and his eyes ghosting shut. It had been _so long_ since he’d felt another person’s touch. Marik’s hands were warm and soft beneath his, and he nuzzled into them for a moment before realizing what he was doing.

            His eyes flashed open to find Marik’s held the same shock he felt. Throwing Marik’s hands from him, he pulled back, blood rushing to his cheeks as he sputtered, “I-I, uh—that, I...It’s just been so long since anyone’s—sorry.”

            Marik’s gaze shifted in turn from shocked, to confused, to something almost tender before returning back to confused, where it stayed. “But we...I mean, that night we were together...”

            Bakura willed himself to relax. “Things didn’t feel the same in Ryou’s body. It wasn’t mine and my spirit couldn’t fully connect to what his body felt. It was like touching everything with gloves on; I only got a vague impression of what I was feeling.”

            Marik’s expression turned downcast. “So that night you didn’t feel anything? None of it?”

            “I wouldn’t say I felt _nothing_ ,” he amended, guilt tugging at him at the hurt darkening Marik’s eyes. “The physical part was dulled, it’s true, but I did feel it. As for the rest...” Bakura cleared his throat. “There is more than one way to feel.”

            Before Bakura could register he had even moved, Marik was straddling his lap, hands holding Bakura’s face once more.

            “What do you think you’re—?”

            “Shhh.” Marik placed a finger over Bakura’s mouth. Once Bakura made no move to speak further, Marik traced the finger over his lips. They were soft and a little moist from nervous licking, and Marik wanted nothing more in that moment than to taste them—so he did.

            Bakura gasped when Marik’s finger was suddenly replaced with lips. They tugged gently at Bakura’s bottom lip. Bakura’s hands moved to hold Marik, one caressing Marik’s hip, the other cradling the back of his head as Bakura kissed back.

            “Gods, I’ve missed you,” Marik confessed, his lips traveling over Bakura’s cheeks, nose, eyebrow, and everywhere else he thought to touch. He hadn’t realized how true those words were until they left his mouth. Having Bakura there, in the flesh—his _own_ flesh—and being able to talk to him, to touch and hold him, was overwhelming. He thought he’d never see Bakura again, and now he was kissing him.

            Pulling back, Marik just looked at Bakura and gauged his reaction. Bakura was flushed and breathing a bit more heavily than the situation called for, but perhaps it was all overwhelming for him as well.

            “Y-you certainly know how to make a man feel welcome.”

            “There can be more where that came from— _if_ you want, that is.”

            Bakura’s tongue chased over his lips once more, drawing Marik’s attention. “I wouldn’t be averse to it.”

            Smirking, Marik rolled his hips down, his pelvis lightly brushing Bakura’s before retreating. Bakura let a quiet, breathy moan free, the hand on Marik’s hip tightening, urging him to repeat the motion. Fuller moans followed as Marik did just that while his lips lowered to toy with the sensitive skin behind Bakura’s ear.

            “Gods that feels...” Bakura couldn’t even finish the thought. There were no words to describe the overload of sensations and emotions that flowed through him like the Nile. So he shared his thoughts in other ways. His hands relayed his need for human contact, smoothing under Marik’s shirt and through his hair as his voice cried out his appreciation of Marik’s ministrations.

            “Marik, I want...”

            There was a small sucking sound when Marik pulled away from kissing Bakura’s neck. “You haven’t gotten to finish the tour yet. Should I show you the bedroom?”

            Bakura nodded and Marik grinned before shifting off of Bakura and onto his feet. He led Bakura to the back of the apartment, their fingers braiding together.


	2. Reconnection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marik and Bakura remember their first time while relearning each other.

They stopped beside the bed. Turning the dimmer switch on low, Marik admired the way Bakura’s clothing clung to his body in all the right ways. Stepping closer, he toyed a finger along the hidden muscles of Bakura’s chest. Bakura took a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting.

            Marik slipped the black trench coat from Bakura’s shoulders to heap on the floor, then his shirt. The dimmed light dyed Bakura’s new body a dusky orange. The scars that had peppered Ryou’s body were nowhere on Bakura’s—a clean slate.

            Marik’s fingertips mapped out Bakura’s chest with breezy touches, and a small gasp fell from Bakura’s lips. The fingers trailed like a waterfall from his pecks to the sensitive muscles of his belly, making them quiver. They paused at the sensual V leading down into his jeans.

            “For Ra’s sake, Marik! Actually fucking touch me!” Bakura gripped the backs of Marik’s hands and pressed them against his chest again. Moaning softly, he forced one of Marik’s hands up over his neck and back to his cheek, turning his face to kiss the palm. The other hand was led to the front of his jeans, and Marik obligingly rubbed his fingers over the bulge forming there.

            “Someone’s eager,” Marik teased, his voice growing sultry at Bakura’s forwardness.

            “And you’re not?” Bakura snapped back.

            “I’m eager to draw this out and see just how desperate you get.”

“You are the biggest fucking tease I’ve ever met!”

            Marik drew the tip of his tongue along Bakura’s bottom lip. A groan opened Bakura’s mouth, but Marik didn’t take the invitation. Instead, he sucked on the bottom lip, while his hand wriggled free to cup Bakura’s ass and grind their groins together.

            “Ng!” Bakura’s free hand clenched at the back of Marik’s shirt, the sudden friction shocking through him. It was like he’d never experienced human contact before—and he supposed that was true in a sense, at least for this body. “Marik,” he grated, his voice a bit wispy, “clothes off—now.”

            “Fine by me.” Stepping completely out of reach, Marik made a show of stripping off his shirt. He hooked the back of his thumb in the front and lifted it leisurely, his middle finger trailing up his body. Bakura stared, enchanted by the way Marik’s muscles rippled and stretched with the simple act. Eyes tracking the finger’s progress, Bakura had the urge to replace it with his tongue.

The shirt landed beside Bakura’s, and Marik began slipping his belt off loop by loop. He hadn’t gotten it halfway off before Bakura yanked it the rest of the way and slammed Marik up against the wall, his mouth hot and demanding against Marik’s.

Bakura’s hands were suddenly everywhere: grabbing Marik’s ass, fingering his scars, tugging at his hair, undoing both of their zippers…

Marik pulled from the kiss, panting. “Bakura, slow down. We have all the time in the world.”

“You never truly know how much time you have until you run out of it,” he replied, but the kisses on Marik’s neck had gentled to tender brushes.

Marik leaned his head back and closed his eyes, sighing as Bakura moved down his body. Bakura relieved Marik of his pants, finding him bare underneath, and Marik rubbed along Bakura’s arms as Bakura reverently took him into his mouth.

The heat and pressure were perfect, although Bakura’s form was not. Marik winced at the hint of teeth, but he was too lost to reprimand Bakura.

“Gods, I forgot how good this feels.” Marik threaded the fingers of one hand through Bakura’s wild, silky hair. When the heat began to mount, however, he grudgingly pulled Bakura back.

Bakura stood and removed his own jeans and boxers. The next moment he was on his back on Marik’s bed, Marik holding him down with far more ease than Bakura liked.

“You know,” Bakura grumbled as Marik nibbled his ear, “if I were in my original body, you never would have pinned me so easily.”

Marik hummed contentedly, nuzzling Bakura’s hair. “I don’t care what body you have as long as you’re here.”

Bakura wasn’t sure how to reply to that. His hand reflexively touched the scars on Marik’s back, and Marik’s breath stuttered in Bakura’s ear.

“Lay on your stomach.”

For once, Marik didn’t question Bakura. He lowered himself onto his belly when Bakura shifted out from under him, and Bakura moved to straddle Marik’s legs. Closing his eyes, Marik waited with equal measures of anticipation and anxiety.

For a long time, Bakura just stared. Marik’s scars were on display for Bakura’s scrutiny, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch them. Marik looked vulnerable, and Bakura didn’t want to do anything that would make Marik uncomfortable.

“Well?” Marik finally snapped.

“What?”

“Are you going to do something?”

“…I didn’t know if you would want me to touch them.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Marik pointed out.

True, he _had_ felt them earlier, as well as the last time they were together, but both times had been in the heat of the moment; this was different. This close up, he could see the details of each scar, the care that had gone into each slice of the knife—the part that twisted Bakura’s gut was knowing that the care had been for the posterity of the design rather than the person receiving it.

Reaching out, Bakura tentatively swept his fingers over the wing on Marik’s right shoulder. The raised skin was smooth from where the ember-hot knife had cauterized as it cut. Bakura imagined he could feel the heat of freshly burned skin as he traced his fingers over the carvings one by one. Half-remembered screams mixed with imagined cries of a ten-year-old Marik, and the stink of burning flesh floated from his memory to his nose.

Bakura flinched his hand away when the memories overwhelmed him. “They’re just as I remember them,” he murmured to distract himself.

“You saw them fleetingly one time,” Marik pointed out, watching Bakura from the corner of his vision, “I hardly believe you memorized them.”

“Twice, actually. I saw them when you showed the Pharaoh,” Bakura answered, his tone far less bitter than he would have expected.

“How?”

“When you defeated your dark half, I returned from the Shadows along with everyone else. I had used the Ring to seal a piece of my soul inside the Millennium Puzzle in order to hunt down the Pharaoh’s memories, so that’s where I directed my consciousness upon my return.”

“I didn’t know you could do that!”

“Well, I could only direct my consciousness to either the Ring or the Puzzle at any given time, of course, and I couldn’t use Yugi as a host like I could Ryou—I was simply a spectator. The Puzzle only became integral to my plans once the Pharaoh had learned the secret to uncovering his past, thus granting me the opportunity to initiate the final Shadow Game.”

Bakura’s fingers quivered as they glided over more of Marik’s back. It was strange: before Bakura had focused on these same markings as ‘The Pharaoh’s Memories’, the key to his enemy’s downfall, but now all he saw was Marik’s pain—and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to replace those memories of the Pharaoh with ones of himself.

Bending low, Bakura kissed the nape of Marik’s neck. Marik’s breath snagged in his lungs as Bakura’s fingers dragged lower, his lips and tongue retracing the scars and leaving small tremors in their wake.

            “You’re flawless,” Bakura mouthed as he reached the Ankh that marked the center of the design.

            Marik whimpered in response, his fingers clenching around fistfuls of duvet. “Don’t stop,” he pleaded.

Bakura grunted his acquiescence and commenced his stroking and kissing. “I’m glad to see my idea was well-received.”

“Before you came along, no one ever touched them except to bandage them while they healed; I never realized it would be so...” Marik broke off, lost in the sensations as Bakura reached his lower back, where the scars ended. The unmarred skin was tenfold as sensitive as the upper part of his back, and shockwaves rushed to his groin with each tongued caress along his spine.

Bowing his back, Marik bit his lip to stifle a particularly loud moan—the last thing he wanted was for the neighbors to come pounding on the door.

Pulling away, Bakura sat back on his heels to observe as Marik caught his breath.

Marik turned and unseated Bakura before piling into his lap. Hands anchored in Bakura’s mass of hair, Marik’s lips relayed his appreciation of Bakura’s tender foreplay. “I’m going to make love to you like I should have that night three years ago,” he crooned against moist lips.

            Bakura’s one arm encircled Marik’s lower back in a loose hug as the fingers of his other hand got lost in the supple flesh of Marik’s scars. Now that he’d been given permission, Bakura couldn’t seem to pull his hands away from the smooth, raised design; it was like touching a piece of Marik’s soul. Bakura had never known such a connection, and a sense of wonderment engulfed him as they stared in silence.

            “I wanted so badly to feel you last time,” he admitted, his voice feather-soft, like his fingers. “Just like this: with my own hands.”

            The hand familiarizing itself with Marik’s mended pictographs grazed nails from shoulder to waist, and Marik’s eyes fluttered shut as he bowed into the caress.

            Closing his eyes as well, Bakura breathed deeply, luxuriating in the way the odor of their mingled sweat and musk combined with Marik’s perfume. A moment later Bakura realized how ridiculous the gesture was—how sentimental—and he couldn’t help but chuckle at his actions.

            Marik pulled back to take in Bakura’s mirth. “Am I missing the joke?”

            “It’s nothing,” Bakura evaded, closing in once more. “I was just thinking how much you live up to your namesake.”

            “What, ‘Marik’? As far as I know my father made it up.”

            “I’m sure he wasn’t the first in history to think up that name. But I was referring to your family name.”

            “I looked it up once. Apparently it’s the name of a goddess thought to have mothered both men and gods alike. She represented good and evil, being revered as a goddess of war and carnal pleasure.” Marik nipped at Bakura’s earlobe. “Mmm. Are you comparing me to a god?”

            Bakura rolled his eyes. “You _would_ make that connection. I could just as easily have been comparing you to a woman.”

            Marik pressed his pelvis forward into Bakura’s, catching him off-guard. Sensation thrilled through Marik’s groin at the gasped moan Bakura let slip.

“I’m willing to bet women are the farthest subject from your mind right now.”

Bakura pulled Marik into another heated kiss, speaking between gasps for air. “Then perhaps…I was…insinuating…that you are beautiful.”

            “I won’t stay young and beautiful forever, you know,” Marik teased back, now only half-heartedly into their banter. Bakura separated them once more to Marik’s frustration, but Bakura’s finger tracing the sheen on Marik’s lips kept all protests unspoken.

“Not entirely true. A day _will_ come when you are no longer young—but you will _always_ be beautiful.”

Marik felt his control unweave with those tender words. Smiling, Marik took the hand tracing his lips and kissed the back of it before leaning over Bakura, their combined weight tipping them onto Bakura’s back.

Lacing their fingers together, Marik ensured they were still connected as he reached into the bed stand for lubricant. Bakura stared at the bottle, his eyes and cheeks burning in the dusky light. Flicking the lid open with his thumb, Marik dribbled a small amount onto Bakura’s erection resting against Marik’s belly. Tossing the bottle aside, he used his newly freed hand to spread the slick substance evenly, and Bakura panted as the coil in his belly tightened further.

            It was as if Bakura’s senses were overcompensating for the millennia he’d spent without touch, saturating him with input. It was sensory overload. If he had felt cheated the first time he and Marik were together, this time was more than making up for it.

            Suddenly Marik’s other hand pulled away from Bakura’s and found his sack—messaging him _just so_ —almost sending Bakura over the edge. Reflexively Bakura’s hands jumped to still Marik’s.

            “ _Oh, gods._ ”

            Marik pulled back and looked Bakura over. “Something wrong?”

            Bakura released a laugh that was more air than sound. “It’s just a little overwhelming. I-I haven’t had anyone so much as hold my hand since I was a child, and now you’re touching me everywhere. If we don’t slow down, I’m not going to last very long.”

            Marik leaned close once more. “I suppose I can slow down a bit,” he conceded, caressing along Bakura’s arms and kissing his jaw. “As I said earlier: we have all the time we need.”

            Grabbing up the lube once more, Marik doused himself in it, jerking himself lazily to ensure he was as hard as he could get.

            “Spread your legs wide.”

            Bakura obeyed, his eyes fluttering shut as Marik’s slippery digits teased his opening. Little gasps and pants gave way to mewls--which he would deny making until the end of time--as Marik tickled the ultra sensitive area until Bakura was shaking with the effort to remain still.

            “Toy with me a second longer, and I swear to the gods I’ll end you!”

            Marik snickered but finally, mercifully, Bakura felt an actual finger worm its way inside him. His tip wept with relief and mounting pressure as the finger loosened him, a second joining it a minute later. Marik no longer tortured Bakura, but he took his time to make sure Bakura was well and truly ready for him.

            “You’ve got enough lube on your knob to oil every door in this damn apartment building! Get on with it!”

            The side of Marik’s mouth quirked, but he relented, removing his fingers and sliding his length in inch-by-careful-inch.

            “ _Gods_ ,” he said, one hand bracing himself on the bed, the other petting Bakura’s hip and thigh. “You’re so warm...It’s like fucking the Sun!”

            Bakura momentarily forgot his own pleasure, lost in the beauty of Marik’s enraptured expression. “I know the feeling.”

            “Was it like this for you last time?” Marik wondered. Then he shook himself back to the moment and _moved_ , and Bakura, too, was lost to all but the sensation.

            As they both grew accustomed to it, Marik sped up, experimenting with angles and speeds and rhythms. Bakura let himself be taken however Marik chose, every testing thrust sparking new feelings of pleasure, different emotions, and always driving him ever closer to that wondrous edge.

            Suddenly Bakura’s panting grew ragged as the heat of Ra himself burned in his loins. It was addicting and overwhelming and desperate. Bakura never wanted the feeling to stop, and yet the more it compounded, the more he wanted to reach the peak that would end it.

            “So close,” he strangled out, hands grabbing whatever was in reach--the douvet, the foot board, Marik’s arm, Marik’s hair, Marik’s back.

            “Finish yourself,” Marik puffed, pounding in earnest now. “I don’t want to break this angle.”

            Agreeing silently, Bakura took his dripping, shining cock into his hand and yanked vigorously, the squelching sounds of his actions mixing with the squeaking of the box spring.

“Marik! Right there! Oh g _ods_ , stay…right…”

            Bakura’s body clenched and seized as light flashed behind his eyes, his toes curling and uncurling with Marik’s rhythmic smashing of his prostate. It seemed an alarmingly long time before Bakura felt himself coming down from his orgasm, each desperate, searching thrust from Marik sending little aftershocks through him. Then Marik, too, stiffened, his rhythm broke, and he collapsed on top of Bakura, huffing as though he’d just assailed Mount Fuji.

            They laid there as their breathing slowly fell into sync.


	3. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marik and Bakura have a heart-to-heart and Bakura opens up to Marik about his past. Angst with a happy ending.

Once they’d both caught their breath enough, Marik asked, “So, did you feel anything that time, Bakura?”

Bakura chuckled, petting Marik’s disarrayed hair and eying the smudges of kohl on his cheeks. “Perhaps a bit of it.” Marik punched him on the shoulder.

Marik went to say something, hesitated, then pulled back, a crease marring his smooth brow.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“What I said earlier is true, isn’t it?”

Now it was Bakura’s turn to look confused. “We said a lot of things earlier, Marik. Which part are you referring to?”

“The part where we have all the time in the world.” Marik’s eyes were suddenly sober, caught in Bakura’s so deeply that Bakura felt they looked into him. “Promise you won’t leave this time—that you’ll never leave me again.”

The answering declaration bubbled up in his throat automatically, but Bakura swallowed the words back down.

Marik’s hand gripped Bakura’s arm painfully. “Bakura, promise me!”

Bakura shook his head, his hand stroking through Marik’s hair and along his cheek. “I won’t make you a promise I will one day have to break.”

Marik’s eyes sparkled like shattered glass, their watery surface on the verge of spilling over. “You’re going to leave me alone again?” he whispered, the words scarcely more than breath.

Bakura’s hand cradled Marik’s head. “Not for a long time; not if I can help it. But even I cannot stave off death forever--not even for you.” The hand caressed away relieved tears and smudged kohl from Marik’s cheeks, and he gave Marik a small smile. “But I will promise you this: when that day comes, and I have to leave you behind in this world, I will wait amidst the reeds until, in your own time, you join me.”

Marik searched Bakura’s gaze before he gave a terse nod. “Good.” Then the melancholy left him entirely, replaced with that catty grin. “Because I’ve got plans for you, and it would be a shame to waste them all in one go.”

“Well, technically two, given last time,” Bakura observed.

Guilt, sudden and painful, slithered in Bakura’s gut and stung his heart at the memory of his last visit. Bakura sat up and turned away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The sweat clothing his body was evaporating gradually, leaving him naked and chilled.

“I didn’t want to leave that night, you know. A part of me wanted to stay…with you…but I had to have the ultimate Shadow Game—I had to.”

Marik sat up facing Bakura’s back, but he didn’t touch him. “Why?”

“For my people.” He sighed, the weight of an entire village sagging his shoulders. “The Pharaoh’s men slaughtered ninety-nine of them to form the Millennium Items…the rest were collateral damage, slain so the truth could never reach the Pharaoh’s ear.”

“But I thought your grudge was against the Pharaoh?”

Bakura’s hands clenched on his thighs, his nails digging into skin heedlessly.

“He and his Council of Murderous Traitors wore and flaunted my dead family like fucking trophies! So I rode into the throne room with Pharaoh's father’s mummified corpse in tow and asked him how he liked seeing his family disgraced, the indignity of their death on display for the world to see!”

Bakura’s voice grew gradually in volume, but he couldn’t stop himself. The words tumbled from him, faster and louder.

“It doesn’t matter that it happened under his father’s rule, and that he didn’t know of it—it was his responsibility to make it right. But I told him a truth that he didn’t want to hear, so he threw it back in my face! A true king takes responsibility for the actions of those he commands! All I asked was that he give me the items, so I could return them to the slab to free my people, and he refused! He had his council pass judgement on me, like I was the traitor to Egypt!”

He was shouting now, so loud the entire building could probably hear, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“He claimed he needed the items to protect ‘his people’, but where was the Pharaoh’s support when my village was starving from drought? Where was the Pharaoh’s understanding when they turned to tomb robbing to feed their dying children? Where was the Pharaoh’s _protection_ when his men raped and murdered them?! _They_ were his people too, _and he let them die_!”

Marik’s arms were wrapped around Bakura before he’d finished his rant, tender kisses landing on shaking shoulders. Droplets of saltwater dried beside droplets of desire on chalky skin, and still Marik held him.

“I’m sorry,” Marik whispered. It wasn’t enough. All the words, and hugs, and kisses, and tears in the world wouldn’t be enough.

Without making a conscious decision to do so, Marik began humming a calming, melancholy tune. He recalled that Ishizu used to sing it to him when he was upset. Most of the words escaped him—something about a mother waiting for her son to come home from the market—but the melody was soothing, full of longing and hope, and in time Bakura’s trembling subsided.

“My mother used to sing to me,” Bakura professed, the confession hardly loud enough to be heard above the wind whistling against the bedroom’s one window. “I can’t remember much about my parents anymore, but I remember that she used to sing.”

Bakura dropped silent again, and Marik debated internally whether or not to voice the questions weighing on his mind. He knew Bakura was vulnerable, but the need to know his mind as intimately as his body grew stronger with each quiet second.

“What was she like, your mother?”

Bakura shrugged, wiping salt from his cheeks. “I don’t really remember her—or any of them. They’re memories of memories after so long. I suppose she was as all mothers are.”

Marik squeezed Bakura a little tighter, staring past his milky hair at the blank wall.

“I never knew my mother—she died giving birth to me. Though I suppose Ishizu has always acted more like my mother than my sister,” he added dryly. Bakura snorted.

Marik frowned against Bakura’s shoulder. “I suppose I’ve always viewed them both as parental figures honestly—certainly Odion is more of a father than my own father was. Fathers are supposed to protect their children, not be the thing they need protection from.”

Bakura’s hands came up to stroke along Marik’s arms. “At least you’ve got your siblings…”

The dark tone made Marik’s heart ache for the man in his arms. “And you’ve got me—and Ryou.”

Bakura snorted quietly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not the same as family.”

“That depends on your definition of ‘family’. Take it from me: having blood-ties doesn’t make you good family. Sometimes you find family you never knew you had where you least expect to.”

Bakura smirked, turning in Marik’s arms to face him. “Like in a dirty back alley?”

Marik grinned back. “Or on Domino City pier.”

“Well, I suppose in a way we have blood-ties, seeing as how I stabbed myself for you. I’d say that counts for something.”

Marik nodded, the finger of his right hand brushing over the spot on Bakura’s arm where a knife wound should have been.

“I’m not sure how the whole magically-produced-body thing works, but seeing as how your new body is a carbon copy of Ryou’s, you probably share DNA, which means technically you share blood. Actually, that will make the whole integration process much easier—we’ll just explain to others that you’re Ryou’s long lost twin.”

Bakura laughed uproariously at that. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear it,” he responded drily. “Who says I’m being ‘integrated’ anyway?”

Marik’s eyes gleamed. “You’re going to have to if you plan on sticking around. I’ve still got connections; I can get you proper documentation, and you can get a job.”

Bakura frowned. “I don’t want a job. I made it by fine without one before.”

“Yes, but if you go back to filching and pickpocketing, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught and incarcerated—or worse yet, they’ll mistake you for Ryou and he’ll take the fall for you. He wouldn’t do well in prison.”

“I wouldn’t count on that—he survived hosting Zorc and I for years, after all—but I see your point.” Bakura huffed and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Fine. I suppose I could find something within the law that works with my established skill set.”

“Good. Helping with rent is the least you can do if you’re staying here.” Marik’s smile turned lecherous. “Well, among other things. As you pointed out yourself, I never do anything without expecting something in return.”

Marik’s smirk sobered as Bakura leaned forward, his hand’s framing Marik’s face. “I would sacrifice much more for you for much less. If this is what it takes to stay, then so be it.”

Marik bit his lip as emotions welled up in his chest. As the moment stretched, he found it difficult to hold Bakura’s gaze, but he didn’t break eye contact. Marik knew instinctively what the feeling meant, and he felt he should address it, but the words stuck in his throat.

“I…”

Bakura raised an eyebrow, curious, but not impatient. “Yes?”

“Bakura, you...I—I mean…”

Marik felt his cheeks warm as Bakura continued to stare at him expectantly, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t say it--not yet.

“I...I missed you,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping.

A small smile graced Bakura’s lips. Closing the gap, Bakura placed a chaste kiss to Marik’s brow before resting his forehead against Marik’s. “I know, Marik,” he whispered. “Me too.”


End file.
